


Man on the Moon

by ShadowJaySmith



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 01:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10264796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowJaySmith/pseuds/ShadowJaySmith
Summary: AU~ Mon-El Matthews is an author who hates his book. Kara Danvers is a reporter who also hates his book. They meet for coffee to discuss it, and eventually, a small interview becomes a relationship that means a lot more to both of them. (One Shot)





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: So, there's a lot about Mon-El's parents in here, and in this, they say things that are very hurtful and could be upsetting to some people, as well as in-depth conversations about suicide. Sorry guys, I just want you all to know that it gets a bit rough at times.

     Mon-El was a writer. His published novel was simplistic, and stuck to textbook structures and tones. Basically: the world saw his work as unimportant and shallow.

    He wrote under the pseudonym “Mike Matthews” and was rather unknown for a long time. His story was about a great man who went on wild adventures across the stars--places he dreamed one day he’d be able to see.

    He’d gone to college and flunked out. Not because he wasn’t smart enough, but because he didn’t care--he’d only gone to please his parents. They were rich, and liked to consider themselves aristocrats who lived in a high-rise apartment buildings and hardly spoke. They’d never been the strongest of role-models.

    In fact, they hadn’t so much as asked him about anything he’d been up to for four years, when he was suddenly offered a book deal, which lead to his success. Unfortunately, the story that brought him into the publishing world was one he wrote on a _whim_. He’d put it up, chapter by chapter, on the internet, and a company had contacted him.

    Seeking someone who knew him for who he really was--not “Mike Matthews” or some one-night stand--he’d picked up the phone and called his parents. They hadn’t picked up, probably because they were out doing something like pretending he hadn’t totally embarrassed them in front of all their friends and tarnished their name. But never-the-less, he left them a voicemail, telling them he’d gotten a book deal. He didn’t know if they ever even acknowledged the fact that he was an author before this--when it actually became of something.

    Being a writer had never gotten him many girls, but his flashing gray eyes and sharp jawline certainly caught their attention. He didn’t mind; he quite liked being admired for his symmetrical face and dark hair. He never thought deeply about being in a relationship--all the women he was attracted to would want him gone in the morning. He didn’t mind that either though; unlike most writers, he prided himself on never knowing the highs and lows of an epic romance, or even a little one. He thought the tropes and the prose and the language were all overused and frankly, he found them all repetitive--or so he told himself.

    So, here he was, in a loud bar--a classic setting for him--that smelled of smoke and scotch. There were so many people packed inside the dive that it felt like when you were on the subway and you think no one else can get on, and then at the next stop, five more people cram inside. He had barely enough room to lift his arm to get his bottle to his mouth. He glanced around, forcing the roar down in his head, watching people.

    He put his empty beer down on the counter next to him, and looked over as the bartender pulled it away and replaced it, an easy smile on his lips.

    “Another for the now, published and _less_ struggling writer?” He smirked.

    Mon-El laughed, “Thanks, Winn.”

    “Sure.” He leaned on the bar across from his friend, “I’m proud of you man.”

    Mon-El smiled, taking a sip, “Really?”

    “Yeah, I haven’t seen this big of a rager since your last birthday.” He said, and they both chuckled, “Who knew that so many people would be so happy that your book is such a success.”

    “Well, I’m pretty sure that seventy-five percent of them don’t even know who I am, let alone what book I wrote.” He said.

    “They’re better off.” Winn teased and Mon-El rolled his eyes.

    “Shut up, Winn.”

    Winn glanced over Mon-El’s shoulder and his brows raised. “Huh.”

    “What?” Mon-El frowned.

    “There’s a girl over there who’s looking right at you.”

    “Oh yeah?” Mon-El turned, “I think she’s looking at you, man.”

    “No way, not while I’m standing next to you, she isn’t.”

    Mon-El turned, “You should talk to her.”

    “ _You_ talk to her!” Winn replied quickly.

    Mon-El raised an eyebrow.

    “Sorry man, women are just--”

    “--Scary, I know.” Mon-El nodded, knowing the bartender’s words from all the many times he’d spoken them.

    Suddenly, an arm bumped into his, making him spill his beer on the guy standing next to him, who didn’t seem to notice at all.

    “ _Oh my god!_ ” The woman said, “I am _so_ sorry, I just--”

“--No,” Mon-El said, shaking his hand dry, “I get it, there are a lot of people…”

    His voice suddenly drifted off. Staring up at him were beautiful blue eyes, behind simple, but cute, frames. Her blonde hair was curled back at the top, the rest cascading down her shoulders. She held out a napkin for him, and he took it slowly.

    He cleared his throat, “...Uh, in here--thanks.”

    She smiled and watched as he cleaned his hand.

    “Can I get you something?” Winn asked.

    “Oh, a club soda please, on the rocks.” She said quickly, pushing up her glasses from the right-hand corner.

    “Coming up.” Winn smiled, turning away to get her the drink.

    “A club soda, really?” Mon-El said, turning to her.

    “What’s wrong with that?” She asked, and he shrugged.

    “Oh, well nothing I guess.” He faced forwards but then had another thought, “I just thought you’d want to drink something a bit stronger--I mean, it is a party.”

    “What’re we celebrating?” She asked.

    Winn put her glass in front of her, “Some guy got his first book published.”

    “Huh.” She said, taking a sip.

    Winn looked at Mon-El, who shrugged.

    “No, I mean, that’s good for him--that’s _great_ \--just I don’t know, I told someone I was going to meet them here but now I think it seems a bit too crazy.” She finished.

    Mon-El smiled, “Who’re you meeting?”

    She looked up at him, raising one golden brow.

    “Maybe I can convince you to postpone?” He slid closer to her and watched as her face hardened.

    “I’ll _pass_.” She said firmly, turning away from him and pulling out her phone, walking to the edge of the crowd and disappearing.

    Winn grimaced as they watched her go, “ _Yikes_.”

    Mon-El smiled, “The night is still young, my friend.” He said, reaching across the bar and smacking Winn’s shoulder. “I’ll see you.”

    “Sure, bye, Mon-El,” Winn nodded good-naturedly as Mon-El disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

    Kara Danvers would like to note-- _on_ the record--that she did _not_ want to be here. She touched her glasses nervously and put down her mug, scribbling something down on her notepad. She crossed her legs under the coffee shop’s faux wooden table and sighed.

    She glanced up at the door, as a couple walked in, holding hands and smiling up at each other. She tilted her head slightly and watched them. They looked like they were so in love, something she couldn’t say with complete certainty she’d ever felt.

    “Hey, are you, are you the reporter?” A voice said next to her.

    Her head jerked up, her eyes meeting those of a tall man with dark hair. He looked vaguely familiar.

    “Mike Matthews?” She adjusted her glasses and he nodded.

    “Thank god,” he sighed, sliding into the seat across from her, “you’re like the third woman I’ve introduced myself to--but I got a few numbers along the way so I guess, no harm, no foul, right?”

    She swallowed. “Yeah, I guess.”

    “Have we met before?” He asked, and she looked up from where she was flipping through her notes to the questions she’d been assigned to ask him.

    “I don’t think so…” She said, “I’m Kara, Kara Danvers.”

    “Hmm…” He took a sip of his coffee, “I’ll remember it eventually.”

    She smiled and straightened. “So,” she placed her phone in the center of the table, recording their conversation, “Mike Matthews.”

    “Kara Danvers.” He replied.

    “I’m doing a piece for CATCO magazine about your newfound success after writing the novel ‘ _The Well of Stars_.’ If you were to talk about this book to say, someone who’d never heard of it, how would you describe it?”

    “Do I have a word limit?” He smirked.

    “No.” She said, smiling in spite of herself.

    “It’s a book about adventure,” he said, “about travelling across the stars to fulfill your destiny.”

    She nodded, looking down at her notepad.

    “I’m--I’m sorry, do you think differently?” He asked, noticing her face.

    “What?” She lifted her eyes.

    “You just--you just made a face.” He pointed at her brow.

    “I did not.” Kara replied indignantly.

    “You’re making one right now.” He said.

    “I am not!”

    “Are too.”

    “Whatever.” She shook her head, “Do you plan on continuing this series? If so, where do you think your gallant hero Lar Gand will travel next? And if not, then what do you have in store for your ‘ _avid readers?_ ’”

    “I haven’t quite decided, actually. I think that often times stories get dragged out for much longer than they ought to be.” He said, “So, unless I can think of a realistic way to continue his story then yeah, but I’m also looking for other inspiration.”

    She smiled, “I agree. About the, uh, dragging it out, thing.”

    He smirked as he watched her write something down on her notepad. “I can’t--you look so familiar, you’re sure you don’t remember us meeting before?”

    She looked up at him, and frowned. “No, sorry.” She said earnestly.

    He nodded, and she went to write something down. He watched her, “Have you read it?”

    “What?” She asked.

    “The book--the one I wrote.” He clarified. “I just--we might get a better conversation if you weren’t so objective--not that you’re doing anything wrong at all, I just mean--”

    “--No, no,” She laughed, touching her glasses, “I understood. Uh, yeah I read it.”

    He waited for a moment. “So, uh, what did you think?”

    “It was, uh, good.” She pursed her lips and looked down again, a small crease forming between her eyebrows.

    “I’m sensing you have some critiques.” He smiled easily.

    “No, nothing too major.” She said, “I just thought maybe your main character was a bit lonely.”

    “Oh, why, because he didn’t have a love interest?” He sat back and rolled his eyes.

    “No, I just think he was leading a very sad existence.” She shrugged, “He had these parents who were never really around and he didn’t really have too many friends--”

    “--Lar Gand has friends!” He said, smiling at her assessment.

    “Not ones he deems to be his equals.” She countered and he nodded.

    “And you see that as something that doesn’t make him a hero.” He guessed.

    “Well, maybe.” She said thoughtfully, “But I mean, when you came up with the plot, were you really thinking about Lar Gand as a hero? Because, lots of times it seems like he’s exactly the opposite.”

    “When?” He smiled bemusedly.

    “I mean, I don’t know, he just does sometimes.” She laughed nervously, touching her glasses and looking down again.

    He watched her, a fascinated smirk on his face. “In any case, I was pretty hammered when I wrote the first chapter--I was pretty hammered the whole time I wrote it actually.”

    She raised her eyebrows and nodded awkwardly, looking down again. He didn’t seem to notice. Had he though, he might not have been so surprised by the outcome of this interview.

* * *

    Mon-El awoke later that August week, and rolled over. He looked blearily up at the one window in his apartment, and squinted. It was mid-day already. Huh.

    He sat up and stretched his arms high above his head, arching his back. He tugged at the neck of his gray t-shirt and stood, yawning. He shuffled into his kitchen and filled up his coffee pot, scratching his bed head blearily. He marched over to his desk after brushing his teeth, a cinnamon bagel in one hand and a mug in his other. He opened his laptop and took a large bite of his breakfast.

    He picked up the glasses that hung on his desk lamp, and slid them on. He clicked on his first tab, refreshing his email. He was extremely bored. He only checked his email when he had nothing else to do.

    The first thing in his inbox was a message from his publisher and editor, Snapper Carr. It was simple, reading:

_Mon-El-_

_I try to be patient with you, but this is ridiculous. Have you gotten an idea for your next book? If not, then you’d better figure it out soon, or else you’re going to not like me too much._

_On another note; Kara Danvers (that reporter from CATCO) finished her article about you. Her boss, Cat Grant is an old colleague of mine. She sent me the article ahead of time to rub it in my face. I’ve attached it below. I don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, this Danvers girl didn’t like it._

_What the hell is wrong with you?_

_\- Snapper_

    Mon-El’s brow furrowed, and he put his bagel down. He quickly scrolled to the bottom of the email, and clicked the PDF.

_Mike Matthews: An Exposé on National City’s New Thriving Author_

_By Kara Danvers_

_M_ _ike Matthews is a young man--probably in his mid-twenties--with dark hair and piercing gray eyes. He takes his coffee black, and doesn’t look like he should be a writer. In fact, he looks like he should be in college, still deciding on his major. He wears simple clothes, and didn’t seem like he dressed up at all to meet with a reporter for his first exposé, but never-the-less, he offered much for me to write about._

_He grew up right here, in National City, to parents of some kind (he wouldn’t talk much about them), and went to school at Yale. He let slip though, that during his sophomore year, he dropped out. For many years, he floated around from job to job, never quite finding anything that fulfilled the urge inside of him to be ‘something more.’_

_One evening, he happened upon an idea, whilst sitting on a barstool after being fired from yet another job. He stumbled home and whipped out his laptop, and just wrote it all down. He said that it took him all of twenty minutes to figure out all the logistics of his_ extremely _complicated novel, ‘The Well of Stars’ which has now become an international best-seller._

_After writing a short version of the soon-to-be hit, he ‘fell asleep in a heap’ on his couch. He awoke later the next day to a raging headache and a bad temper. He went and re-read the first chapter. ‘I absolutely hated it.’ He said, a smug smile on his face, ‘But I couldn’t think of any way to change it for the better, so I put it up online. I immediately got a good amount of hits--more than anything else I’d ever written had got--so I decided to stretch it out into a multi-chapter thing. I had no clue it was going to go anywhere.’_

_While speaking to this young author, one couldn’t help but notice how comfortable he seemed. He leaned back in his chair, and spoke easily. He was very confident in himself as both a writer and a man. The way he speaks is much the opposite of how he writes. His tone is easy and free, while his prose is often lengthy and tighter than a corset--as in, very basic and often so old-fashioned it should be in a museum. He, as a person, couldn’t seem to care less about how his writing will affect young readers, let alone the writing process. He seems to solely focus on how this novel has brought him into the national spotlight. But, I guess, whatever pays for your next typewriter, right?_

    He blinked. He tried to scroll down, but he realized that was the end of it. His face morphed into such a deep scowl, his eyebrows began to ache. He didn’t know what to think. For some reason, her words affected him in a way no other criticism had before. He stood and got dressed, printing the article out, all the while his brows furrowed, his hurt turning to anger as he stormed out of his apartment and to the bus.

    He stormed into CATCO, marching past security without so much as an introduction. He slipped into an elevator just as the doors closed, and stomped down the hall to a small office at the end of the corridor, without any windows and a sign that read simply: _Kara Danvers, Reporter._

    He burst in, making her jump.

    “I cannot _believe_ you wrote that about me!” He smacked the article down on her desk.

    “Wrote _what?_ ” She picked up the papers and looked at them.

    “This--this--this whole _thing!_ ” He said.

    “How did you get this?” She said, “I just sent it to--oh. I see. Your publisher is Snapper Carr, correct?”

    “Yes!” He said.

    She sighed, “Oh, Miss Grant what have you done?” She muttered to the ceiling, putting it back down on her table and looking up at him. “Well, I don’t know what you want me to say, Mike.”

    “I want you to _explain_ what the _hell_ made you talk about me like that?”

    “I’m _sorry?_ ” She said, standing up and resting her hands on her hips.

    “You _should_ be! You made me sound like some--some--egotistical asshole who doesn’t care at all about what he does for a living!”

    “I’m sorry, did I miss something?” She replied.

    He blinked, looking very taken aback. “I _do_ care about my writing--”

    “--You said that when you wrote the first chapter of the first draft of _The Well of Stars_ , you were _drunk_.”

    “As I often am!” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t care!”

    She shook her head and laughed humorlessly, touching her glasses.

    “And _besides_ , what--what would _you_ know about writing?!” He snapped.

    She raised her eyebrows, “You’re kidding me right?”

    “No! You come from a family of _scientists_ , don’t you? That’s what you said the other day!”

    “My _adoptive_ parents and sister are all scientists.” She corrected.

    “That doesn’t matter!” He cried, “Why do you think it’s okay to _traipse_ around like you know a _damn thing_ about being a writer?!”

    “My job.” She said, leaning on her desk, “I literally write for a living.”

    “What did you really think of my book?” He said.

    “Ex _cuse me?_ ” She said disbelievingly.

    “What did you _really_ think of _The Well of Stars?_ ” He repeated in a frustrated tone.

    “Is _this_ what this is all about?” She said, “You can’t believe that there’s a woman in the world who isn’t ready to admire your _fantastic struggle_ as a male writer who doesn’t even need to try to become famous?”

    “I _did_ try!” He said.

    “You said you didn’t even _like your first draft of the book!_ ” She replied, and he bit his lip angrily.

    “That doesn’t mean I didn’t _grow_ to enjoy it--!”

    “--No, but it does show that all you care about is the popularity of writing things by making them unemotional and detached--making yourself unlike everyone else! It shows you don’t care about your own voice, that all you really want is to be known! To be famous!

    Your voice, and tone and ideas are all _vital parts_ of your writing! And what makes me upset is that you don’t seem to notice--or _care_ \--that your writing is so lonely and hollow!”

    “That’s not-- _ugh!_ I tried to--I _tried really fucking hard_ , to use my own voice, but apparently people like my drunk one much better! Why do you have to make that seem like a bad thing and not a charming anecdote about how I came to be?”

    “Because, I wrote it, and I get to have an opinion. I understand that’s a new concept to you.” She said smugly, stepping away from her desk and sitting down again.

    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked.

    “Oh, it’s nothing.” She smiled. “I just know--from reading your novel--that you only think of women as objects at the least and minor sub-characters at the most. Probably why the only ones we met were the two he had a threesom with on Star Haven.”

    “That was just a--a-- _minor_ plot point, why would you--”

    “-- _My point exactly!_ ” She cried, standing and walking around the table to face him. “You don’t know how to write about things you’ve never experienced-- _emotional_ things. You’d be a perfectly fantastic writer if words were all that mattered, but that’s not all that people should think about! Stories are about _people_ , and therefore an author should have the character make _emotional appeals_ to his audience!”

    “The same ones that every other book out there makes, right?” He yelled and she nodded.

    “The _good_ ones, yes!”

    “Well, I’m sorry that I’d like to try something _new_ for a change.” He snapped.

    He took a breath, and she stared up at him evenly. They looked away from each other, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Their eyes flickered back together, and his nose twitched.

    “Goodbye, _Kara_.” He said.

    “Goodbye, _Mike_.” She replied.

    She watched him as he left her office pausing in the doorway to give her one last glance. It was short and concise, and after he disappeared from her line of sight, she touched her glasses, and somewhere, she felt guilty. He obviously didn’t know what he was doing with his life.

* * *

    Suffice to say, Mon-El complained profusely to Winn that night, and many nights after that. To Winn, his life was a never-ending source of entertainment (no matter how bad it made him feel to say it). He pitied and liked the guy for sure, it just… didn’t outweigh the amusement that came from hearing about his travels.

    Tonight, Mon-El stood in front of the cracked and stained glass over his bathroom sink. This was the only mirror in his tiny apartment, and now, he was tying a bow tie securely about his collar. He finished and stared at it. He felt like a kid again, and he wasn’t sure why.

    He grabbed his jacket off the arm of his desk chair, and switched off the small, elegant lamp from which his spectacles hung. He walked out of his flat, and locked the door behind him. He stepped outside of the building, and looked around, waiting to call a cab.

    He stepped outside, after watching the streets of the city pass by his window, looking up into the face of The NMA, or National City’s most prized art museum. He buttoned his jacket and walked up the steps, signing in at the front table. He stepped under an archway, with simple writing, entitled: ‘ _The New Wing_.’ He rolled his eyes and came into a room where people in black suits and prim dresses milled around with champagne flutes in their hands.

    “Mon-El,” A woman said, walking towards him, “you’re _late_.”

    He sighed as she fussed with his tie, “I came as fast as I could, mother.”

    “This is very important for your father and I, and I can’t have you mucking it all up again.” She said, as a man walked up behind her.

    “Hello, father.” Mon-El nodded.

    The man simply raised an eyebrow, and turned away, taking a sip of his wine. Mon-El cocked his head and smiled dryly. _Same old, same old,_ he thought.

    “Is there any particular thing I should do here?” He asked tiredly, already knowing the answer.

    “You’re our son.” His mother said, “Act like it.”

    “Copy that.” Mon-El said.

    He turned away and grabbed a flute as a waiter passed by. He waltzed into the next room, looking around at the black and white photos on the wall casually. His eyes moved around the space, against the grain. Suddenly, he spotted a woman standing in front of a large photo of a rusted out town.

    Her golden hair was up in a bun, and she wore a little green dress, simple and elegant. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that she was here. He tilted his head and walked slowly to her side, stopping and taking another hit from his glass.

    “So we meet again.” He sighed.

    She jumped slightly and looked up at him. She seemed rather flustered.

    “Mike?”

    “Hi, Kara.” He said flatly.

    “I--what’re you doing here?” She asked in a hushed voice.

    “What do you mean?” He frowned.

    “I _mean_ ,” She glanced around as if to see if anyone had noticed them, touching her glasses as she went, “since when do you attend new wing openings in _art museums?_ I thought you--”

    “--Were shallow and uncultured?” He guessed and she rolled her eyes.

    “No, of course not.” She said, “Just--nevermind.” She shook her head, moving to the next photo.

    “So tell me,” He asked, sipping his champagne, “what brings a writer from CATCO down here? Don’t tell me you donated to the New Wing fund.”

    “I write for the _Arts & Culture_ section of CATCO,” She said matter-of-factly, “and this counts as _both_ art and National City’s ever-growing culture.”

    “Oh.” He said, to which she turned away. She moved to the next piece and he watched her.

    “I, uh, I’d like to apologize.” He said suddenly, making her turn.

    “For what?” She frowned.

    “The way I talked to you--before.” He looked down at the last of his drink, “I guess I just wasn’t used to the whole _interview_ thing.” He laughed awkwardly.

    “Or someone not liking your work.” She said.

    He laughed, “No, I’m pretty sure my editor hates it too.”

    “I never said I hated it!” She replied indignantly, making him chuckle again.

    “Well, you came pretty close.”

    She smiled abashedly, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

    They began to move to the next piece in silence. Together, they took a deep breath, both thinking about how abominably bored they were to be here.

    She turned back to him suddenly. “You know, I think you’re deluding yourself into thinking that that’s the only reason you got upset.”

    “About?” He arched a brow.

    “The article.” She answered.

    “Ah.” He nodded, “Why do you think I got upset?” He said, a bewildered smile slipping onto his face.

    “I think what I said struck a nerve.” She said slowly, “And that’s, uh, that’s the real reason why the article never made it to print. I acted like I knew everything about you when the truth is I don’t know you at all.”

    He looked back and forth between those beautiful blue eyes, and saw nothing but sincerity.

    “Can we start again?” She asked, “Not that--not that anything is starting or anything just, uh, I know I’d feel a lot better.”

    He beamed down at her and offered his hand, “I’m Mon-El.”

    “Mon-El?” She asked, taking his hand slowly, “That’s beautiful.”

    “Well, my parents certainly think so.” He said.

    She smiled, “You don’t?”

    “It’s an old family name.” He replied simply. “Kara is much nicer.”

    She laughed, blushing nervously and adjusting her glasses. He watched her, a soft smile gracing his features. They spent most of the rest of that evening in separate corners, glancing over at each other.

* * *

    Mon-El slouched at the counter and spun his almost empty glass around in lazy circles. It had been three weeks since he’d seen Kara. He didn’t think about her too much, usually, just sometimes, he’d come across her name floating around in the back of his mind and he’d wonder what she was doing; what she was thinking about.

    This morning, he’d put another one of Snapper’s emails into his trash, ignoring the subject line which said: “ _If you ignore this one too, Matthews than I’m going to come over there._ ” He was very focused on the task at hand--if the task was nursing his beer and not writing his next novel.

    Winn wasn’t on shift, so here he was; sitting like a bum on a barstool by himself. He pulled his phone clumsily out of his pocket and saw that his mother had called him an hour ago, and left a message. He pressed the device to his ear and took another sip of his drink.

    “ _Mon-El, it’s your mother._ ” She said firmly, as if he were an idiot and didn’t know who was calling. “ _Your father and I are hosting a fundraiser for the New Wing of the National Museum of Art, so we can exhibit more expensive, multi-media pieces. You must come. It’s non-negotiable. Wear something nice, and I’ll send you the venue's address later._ ”

    He let his head fall against the bar’s dark surface. He suddenly wished for the days of solitude and shame that followed his dropping out of Yale. At least when his parents had considered him an embarrassment, he didn’t have to make appearances for them. Nevertheless, he would go, and he’d be grateful for once that he did.

    The first thing his mother said to him when he walked into the open-air, high-rise, restaurant was: “Is that _the same_ tux you wore to the gallery opening?”

    “Mom, I only have one tux.” He replied, “Plus, they all look the same, who’s going to notice?”

    “ _I_ just did.” She said pointedly, glancing around like anyone else in the room was going to notice such a minute detail. “Try not to drink too much.”

    “Or embarrass you and dad, got it.” He nodded, “I mean, if you’re so concerned about me screwing this up for you, then why do you even bother inviting me to these things--?”

    “--Miss Matthews,” A voice said, making them both turn before Mon-El could answer.

    “Adam!” She smiled, walking over to him and pulling the young man into a cordial hug. For some reason, Mon-El found it comforting that she was able to show some affection to someone, even if it was a guy almost exactly his age that wasn’t her son.

    “How are you?” She smiled.

    “Oh, I’m _great._ ” He grinned, “We’ve certainly gotten a good turn out, huh?”

    “Well, _I’d_ say so.” She joked, and Mon-El frowned, “Adam, this is my son, Mon-El. Mon-El, this is Adam, one of the curators for the New Wing.”

    “Nice to meet you,” Mon-El shook his hand.

    “And you. You have an amazing mother, Mon-El.” Adam said kindly.

    “Don’t I know it.” Mon-El said, forcing a smile, and failing to hide all the sarcasm.

    His mother sighed and quickly changed the subject, “Mon-El is a writer.”

    “Oh, really?” Adam raised his eyebrows as though he were impressed, “What do you write?”

    “Uh, all sorts of stuff, really.” He said, scratching the back of his head.

    “Anything I might have heard of?”

    “Well--” His mother began but she was interrupted.

    “--Adam, here, sorry it took me so long…” The woman holding out a glass to Adam looked up and suddenly mirrored Mon-El’s surprised stare. “...Mon-El,” She blinked.

    “Kara, uh, hi, what’re you--” he cleared his throat, “--what’re you doing here?”

    “I, uh, well, Adam invited me.” She said, glancing at the curator who smiled happily.

    “Uh, Kara, this is my mother.” He motioned toward the woman who looked Kara up and down, “She uh, orchestrated this whole thing.”

    Kara had a strange expression on her face when she took his mother’s hand. She almost seemed suspicious of her, or perhaps it was just Mon-El’s perception of the woman he barely knew.

    For a long time, Mon-El stood skulking at the other side of the room, every so often looking up from his drink to find Kara. This usually lead to Kara looking up from standing silently with her beau, and meeting his eyes. He shook his head and walked out onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing, looking out at National City. It reminded him why he chose to come back after his failed attempt at college.

    “Hey.” A soft voice said behind him.

    He turned, and there she was, standing in that little black dress and holding a glass gingerly in her hands. She stopped next to him and stared at the view as well, the wind whipping the loose strands of hair around her head.

    “Hey,” He said, leaned back down onto the railing and smiling at her profile. “So I see you’re not having too much fun either, huh?” He smirked, facing forwards again.

    She glanced at him, “It’s nice.” She replied weakly, making him laugh.

    “It’s stuffy and boring, why would you ever agree to go on a date to something like this?” He snorted and she shrugged.

    “He asked, and I said yes.”

    He looked at her. “How long have you two been a, uh, _thing_.”

    “I wouldn’t say we’re _‘a thing,_ ’” Kara said, making a face as she said the phrase, “but uh, we’ve gone out a couple of times.”

    “But you’re not all that into him.”

    “Well, no, it’s not that--” She began, obviously trying to think of some excuse for why she didn’t like him.

    “...Then what is it?” He asked gently.

    “I have no idea.” She sighed helplessly, falling against the railing in a dramatic fashion.

    He laughed and watched her for a moment. “Do you wanna get out of here?”

    She snorted, “And go where?”

    “I know a place.” He smiled.

    She cocked her head slightly and shook it, “No… I can’t--”

    “--Oh _come on_ , Kara.” He sighed exasperatedly, “You really think anything interesting is going to happen? They aren’t even _dancing_ at this party.”

    She snorted, “It’s funny that _that’s_ what you object to.”

    “Please, Kara, it’ll be fun!” He said, making her smile.

    “I’m sorry, but I think I’ll have to pass.”

    It was in that moment, that he remembered where he’d seen her; at the dive bar near the end of his street, the night of his party. He’d tried to flirt with her and she’d totally blown him off.

    He watched her for a moment, and waited as she turned back to him.

    “I should probably go find a way to sneak out.” He smiled, “The party’s in full swing I doubt she’ll notice me leaving now.”

    Kara laughed, “Good luck!”

    “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” He said, beginning to walk backwards away from her.

    She shook her head, beaming at him,

    “Alright well,” He shrugged, “Your loss. If you, uh, ever want to, I don’t know, go get a drink or need anything, you’ve got all of my info.”

    She smiled, “Alright.”

    “See you around, Kara Danvers.” He said, making her tilt her head slightly and grin.

    “Bye, Mon-El.” She said softly.

    He swiveled on his heel and strode back in through the double doors as Adam walked past, towards the reporter. He glanced over at them, watching Kara’s face as Adam smiled down at her. Something inside the pit of his stomach seemed to ache a bit. He looked down at it and frowned, turning to go drink some water to see if that would make it subside. It didn’t.

* * *

    Kara walked quickly, stepping off the bus and glancing down at her phone. She looked up at the buildings around her, obviously searching for one in particular. This was a shabby neighborhood, right next to skyscrapers that stood high above the city streets. She turned to her screen again, following the directions.

    She came to a small building with brick walls and wrought iron gates chained open. She pushed one of the front doors, catching her eye in the window’s reflection. She swallowed and began to look at the mailboxes, trying to find a specific one.

    A person came through the door and offered it to her. She gratefully--if not a bit awkwardly--accepted it and walked in. The place was dirty and the floor was tarnished with dust and the reminisce of the streets outside; brought in, no doubt, on the shoes of people who’d come here before her.

    She turned to the elevator, and it was out of order. She sighed and rolled her eyes, looking at the large staircase at the end of the lobby. She trudged over and walked up, checking her phone again to make sure she was in the right place. She came to the third floor landing and looked around. There was a small hallway leading deeper into the building, and she took a careful step, looking at the gold numbers on the dark green doors.

    She stopped in front of one and lifted her fist, about to knock gently. She paused, swallowing and putting her hand down. She touched her glasses and looked down at her phone, checking one last time just to make sure she had the right address.

    The door opened abruptly. Kara jumped, and looked up into the face of a tall, beautiful, dark haired woman. She looked Kara up and down like a vulture, making the reporter swallow nervously. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and walked past her, leaving the door open as an invitation for Kara to go in. Kara blinked, watching the woman saunter down the hall, walking down the staircase with grace and poise.

    She turned back to the apartment and stepped over the threshold, closing the door softly behind her. “Hello…?”

    She walked down a small hallway that lead into a cramped living space. She looked about, frowning. It seemed like it could be his place, but she wasn’t sure, since he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, behind her a door opened, the sound of a toilet flushing. Mon-El looked up, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, hair mussed and towel hanging on his hips.

    “Uh, hi.” He said slowly, his voice a bit muddled because of the toothpaste.

    “The uh--the woman who--she just--she let me--oh god,” Kara turned her back to him, “I am so sorry--”

    “--No, no, it’s fine--” He ran back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth, as she pressed her palm against her forehead.

    “I just--” She swallowed, “--I have to ask for a favor--I was trying to call but, uh, you weren’t answering.”

    He came out of the bathroom then, having replaced the towel with boxers whilst yanking a shirt over his head. “Yeah,”

    “I guess I, uh,” She cleared her throat, “I guess I know why now.”

    “Oh, well, I, uh, lost my phone.”

    “Oh, really?”

    “Yeah,” He chuckled, “it’s been nice though, easier to avoid Snapper’s calls.”

    They shared a nervous laugh, then began to stand awkwardly. He sighed anxiously and began.

    “So, uh, what can I, uh, do for you?” He asked.

    “Oh! Right!” She nodded, “So uh, it’s about your mom.”

    His face hardened, and he walked past her to his bureau. “What about her.” He asked flatly.

    Kara blinked, “Uh, well, see, she’s, uh, having this gala, and there’s going to be all these artists there--there’s, uh, going to be this, auction thing--and I really, _really_ need to be there.”

    He nodded, pulling on some jeans. “Do you really _need_ to be there?”

    “Yes!” She said, “It’s going to be so interesting to talk to all of those--those-- _creators!_ ”

    “Okay,” He buttoned his pants, “what do you need me for?”

    “I need you to let me be your date, _obviously_.” She sighed exasperatedly.

    “I--uh-- _what?_ ” He spluttered, “Kara trust me it _won’t_ be fun--”

    “-- _Please_ , Mon-El.” She begged

    He sighed, resting his hands on his hips, “Why not ask that--that _Adam_ guy?”

    “We had a bit of a… falling out.” She said, “Nothing too major,” she added quickly, “we just decided we weren’t good for each other--I’m sorry, was that your girlfriend leaving earlier?”

    “I--what?” He blinked, unprepared for her line of inquiry, “No, no, I don’t--I don’t have a, uh, girlfriend.”

    “Oh, right, okay.” She looked down and touched her glasses and he looked out the window, his shoulders lifting nervously as he crossed his arms across his chest. They stood in tense silence for a long moment.

    “So, uh, what do you say?” She said, forcing optimism into her voice.

    He eyed her for a long moment, a new spark in his eye and a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.

    “Okay.” He said, making her face brighten.

    She swallowed, “Okay…” She touched the rim of her glasses and rolled her shoulders, “Well, I should be going--I’ll, uh, see you Saturday?”

    “Saturday.” He nodded, and with that, she showed herself out, practically running to the door.

* * *

    Mon-El stood in front of the mirror, fidgeting with his tie. He loosened it all the way and threw it angrily into the sink bed. He pressed his palms against the porcelain lip, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh. He looked up, meeting his gaze. He straightened, and picked up the two ends, beginning again.

    Suddenly, there came a knock. He popped his head out of the bathroom, brow furrowing. He glanced down at his watch, and his frown deepened. He walked over and opened the front door, looking out to find Kara standing out there, wearing the same green dress she’d worn for the opening of The New Wing.

    “Oh,” He said, his face falling slightly.

    “Is there something wrong?” She asked pointedly, scowling at him.

    “No, it’s just--” He swallowed, “--nothing, nevermind. You look beautiful.”

    “Are you sure it’s nothing?” She said, walking past him into the flat, never breaking eye-contact.

    “My mom just--” He scratched behind his ear, letting the door fall shut as he followed her. She stopped, crossing her arms and looking up at him pointedly. “--She might say something to you.”

    “About what?” She asked, gentler this time, knowing it wasn’t his problem.

    “It’s nothing but she’s a bit, uh, judgemental?” He pursed his lips, “You probably don’t have to worry but, you know, just in case.”

    She nodded, and her eyes fell to his collar. “You still haven’t finished getting ready?”

    “No, my tie is refusing to listen--” He began, cutting himself off as she moved forwards and began to try it. “--To me…”

    He watched her small pout as she worked. He was suddenly struck again by just how beautiful her face was. There was nothing quite specific about it that made it stand out; it was just cute.

    “There.” She sighed proudly, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. “You look all professional now.”

    He snorted, “Congratulations on being the first woman--correction: _person;_ man or woman _\--_ to ever accomplish that.”

    She laughed, beaming up at him. They stood for a moment then, suddenly lost in a heavy silence. He bit his lip, and she swallowed. They both turned away abruptly, her adjusting her glasses, him scratching his cheek whilst clearing his throat.

    “So--”

    “--Yeah.” he nodded, walking quickly to the door and holding it open for her.

    They stood awkwardly next to each other in the elevator, as Kara commented on how it was now fixed. They went outside, and around a corner and down a side street to get to a main avenue. Kara hailed a cab on her first try, sliding inside and watching as he did the same. He accidentally knocked his head against the doorway, and they both laughed. From then on, the night seemed to move much more smoothly.

    The car pulled up outside his parents’ apartment building. He took a moment, looking up at it anxiously. Swallowing, he got out and held out a hand to help Kara. She laughed, taking it and thanking him with a goofy smile on her face. He beamed at her and they walked into the lobby.

    They rode up the lift, standing in the back behind a bunch of other people. She glanced up at him, and he looked down at her. They exchanged a happy glance, and then turned back forwards. They stepped out directly into the apartment, and he watched as her eyes widened.

    “Oh _wow_ ,” she breathed.

    He sighed, “Yeap.”

    She looped her arm through his, and he looked down at her bewilderedly. She didn’t seem to notice--she was too busy taking in the scene. He could almost see the gears moving around in her head; words she could use, phrases she could craft, adjectives she could implement to describe the high ceilings and ornate chandeliers.

    He leaned down, whispering to her, “They come from old money.”

    She turned, “You don’t include yourself?”

    “Well, I haven’t received a penny of help since I flunked out of Yale.” He smirked humorlessly.

    “I thought you said you dropped out?” She asked.

    “I might have wanted to save a bit of face.” He replied.

    “Well _that_ is a _much_ better anecdote than ‘I got drunk and wrote this book.’” She teased, making him chuckle.

    She smiled proudly, biting her lip and turning forwards, impressed at her own ability to make him laugh. They followed the crowd, walking into the large dining room, where he could see his mother greeting people. Mon-El pulled away from Kara, grabbing two champagne flutes and, handing her one gingerly. She nodded thanks and took a careful sip, as did he.

    “I had no idea that an apartment could be this _big_.” She said, still in awe of the decor.

    He smiled, sliding his free hand around her waist absent-mindedly. Together, they both took another hit, feeling oddly out of place.

    “Mon-El!” His mother said, moving towards him, a surprised look on her face. “And… You.”

    “Nice to see you again, Miss Matthews.” Kara said politely, ignoring the judgemental look his mother was giving ther reporter’s dress.

    “And you.” She replied, turning back to her son. “You’re on time.” She remarked.

    “Indeed.” He said, “It’s a miracle.”

    “Come, come,” She ushered them forwards, “your father will be so glad you’re here.”

    Mon-El swallowed the last of his champagne, handing it to a waiter. Kara looked up at him with a worried expression on her face, but he said nothing, only thought: _I sincerely doubt that._

    An hour into the night, and Kara was already on her third glass. This had been a mistake. No one ever wants to do a piece on donors to the arts. She’d taken this article because she had a good idea of how to get invited to the party, and also because there wasn’t anyone else offering. And now… well let’s just say she knew why.

    They stood in a circle with a group of other members of the fȇte, trying not to fall asleep as they spoke of their trials and tribulations. Mon-El shifted closer to her, and she glanced up at his face. He seemed so guarded, his doting mother standing across from him and putting on a good show. Kara didn’t know why she got the feeling his mother was pretending--she didn’t even know why such a horrible thought would cross her mind--but she couldn’t help the way her investigative mind worked.

    “...My son, Mon-El,” His mother pointed to him from across the group, “is a published author.”

    “Oh really?” One or more people remarked.

    “The critics are _raving_ about his individuality and one even said his words ‘breathe life into a story that takes it’s audience across the universe.’” His mother bragged proudly. “His book just hit over ten _million_ copies sold.”

    “And I’m guessing that yours is among them?” Kara asked suddenly, making everyone turn, including Mon-El, who looked up from his glass to her defiantly arched brow.

    “What?” His mother blinked, trying to hold her composure.

    “I’m just wondering if you’ve actually _read_ his book, that’s all.” Kara replied, continuing after a pause, “You just… you keep talking about what all the critics are saying, but you’re not talking about what _you_ thought of it.”

    “Of course I’ve read it!” His mother snapped indignantly, “How dare you--”

    “--What’s it about?” Kara cocked her head slightly, stepping closer. Mon-El grabbed at her hand, trying to tell her to stop but she shrugged him off. “Come on, tell me, what’s the book about?”

    His mother’s breath hitched in her throat, her cheeks growing red. “I--”

    “--Fine,” Kara sighed, “what’s the _genre_ of the book?”

    “I cannot believe that you--” His mother began, but was interrupted again.

    “-- _Okay_ ,” Mon-El laughed nervously, stepping in front of Kara, “that’s enough you guys.”

    “Mon-El--”

    “-- _Come on_ , Kara.” He said, leading her away.

    They practically ran into the next room, Mon-El gripping her hand tightly and looking back every so often. They turned and moved down a narrow hall, and up a short staircase.

    “Mon-El, what--” She yanked her hand out of his, “ _\--what’re you doing?_ ”

    “What am I-- _What am_ I _doing?!_ ” He cried, looking behind her nervously to see if there was anyone following them. “ _What are_ you _doing?!_ ” He hissed.

    “I don’t know what you’re _talking_ about!” She snapped, putting her hands on her hips.

    “Why were you--”

    Suddenly the door to his left opened and a man stepped out of the bathroom. He paused and looked up at the pair standing frozen in the corridor. He frowned slightly and continued walking, glancing over his shoulder as he turned the corner. Kara turned back and touched her glasses, grimacing.

    Mon-El blinked, remembering that he was upset, “-- _Why were you talking to my mom like that?_ ”

    “ _I’m sorry,_ I don’t understand what I did wrong?” She replied, scowling up at him.

    “You were--you were embarrassing her in front of everyone _\--drawing_ _attention_ _to us!_ ” He said urgently, “You can’t--you can’t _do_ stuff like that!”

    She didn’t answer. Instead, her expression melted, and her shoulders relaxed. He was thrown by this response.

    “ _What?!_ ” He whispered harshly.

    She shook her head, looking down and adjusting her spectacles, “Nothing, I’m--I’m sorry.”

    She began to turn away and he stepped in front of her, “Wait, Kara, what’s--what’s--”

    “-- _Mon-El!_ ” Someone bellowed.

    Mon-El swiveled around to find his father, his mother on his heels. Instinctively, he put his hands out, as if to shield Kara. Her jaw dropped confusedly and she watched as his heart began to race.

    “You _no good piece of shit!_ ” He stomped over to his son, wagging a finger in his face. “You are just _bent_ on _ruining the reputation_ your mother and I have _built!_ ”

    “No, I--”

    “-- _Shut up!_ ” he snapped, “You should be thankful we even want to talk to you _at all_ , let _alone_ mention you to our peers!”

    “I know, I’m sorry--”

    “-- _Be quiet!_ ” He snapped, making both Mon-El and Kara flinch. “How _dare you_ , come in here with this--this-- _woman_ , and act like anyone _gives a damn what your stupid book is about!_ ”

    Mon-El leaned away as his father took a step closer to him.

    “You may have women out there _throwing themselves at you_ over that _stupid_ thing, but I can tell you it’s going to be _nothing_ in ten years!” He said, “You will be forgotten, and you’ll never-- _never_ \--become anything but a _stupid, rotten, child_ , who can write _pretty verses_.”

    Mon-El swallowed and Kara covered her gaping mouth.

    “Finally someone tells you the _truth_.” His father continued, “ _Get over it_ , and get a _real_ job, you idiot.”

    Mon-El’s hands shook and his face hardened.

    “Now get out of my sight and off my property.” His father said, turning around and walking back to his wife. She only shot Mon-El a veiled glance before they both disappeared.

    Mon-El’s breath hitched in his throat and he looked down. He clenched and unclenched his fists, swallowing hard. After a long moment, Kara finally got herself to move. She walked around him so they were facing each other, resting a hand on his shoulder.

    “--You wanna get out of here?” She asked gently.

    He blinked, looking up at her.

    “ _Yes_.”

* * *

    He’d originally thought about taking her to the bar, but he didn’t feel like sitting in a crowd anymore. He’d asked her if it was okay that they just go back to his apartment and have a drink. She’d agreed, a soft, sympathetic smile on her face.

    They were walking up the stairs when suddenly, Kara stopped. He paused, and then when she didn’t move, he turned back to her.

    “Kara?” he stepped down to meet her.

    She took a deep breath and looked up at him, “I am--I am so sorry.”

    He laughed, “About what?”

    “You’re kidding right?” She said, “I should’ve never--I should _never_ have said all those things to you--I didn’t know anything about you! I just assumed--”

    “--Kara,” he put his hands on her shoulders, “you have nothing to be sorry about.”

    He shrugged, smiling amicably, “Come on, let’s go.”

    She sighed, following him to his apartment. As they walked inside, he offered her an arm. She took it gratefully, using her free hand to yank of her heels one by one as he held her steady, kicking the door closed with his foot. He slipped out of his shoes as well, yanking his tie loose as she straightened.

    They walked into the living room--which she now noticed also housed his bed, desk, and laptop--and he walked into the kitchen, pulling the last two beers out of his fridge.

    “Here,” he said gently.

    “Thanks.” She smiled.

    They opened them in tandem, taking sips as they sat down across from each other; he on the end of the bed, she on the edge of the couch. She looked down at her bottle as it rested against her knees and he glanced over at his desk. His eyes slid slowly back, just as hers lifted carefully. They shared an anxious smile and then both turned back away.

    “Hey so,” He cleared his throat, “I’ve been, uh, working on this--this thing, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to take a look at it.”

    She blinked, her face brightening. “I’d love to.” She beamed.

    He blushed slightly, standing and opening a drawer in his desk, pulling out a small, leather journal. She watched him, an adoring smile gracing her lips. He flipped through the pages quickly, and finding the right part, he handed it to her.

    She took it eagerly, putting her beer down on the coffee table, looking up at him. “A short story?” She asked, and he nodded, pressing his lips together.

    Her eyes traced the handwritten verses carefully, and he watched, enraptured and wanting to memorize every moment. Her brow twitched sometimes when she particularly liked something. He looked at her soft expression, wondering how she could be so many things and yet only one person; fierce and confident and also sensitive and smart.

    She looked up at him, her lips parted slightly.

    “Was it that bad?” He asked, smirking.

    She shook her head, “It was beautiful.”

    He blinked, letting out a nervous chuckle, “Really?”

    “Yes, _really_.” She got up and walked over, sitting down next to him. “This is _exactly_ the kind of writing I thought you could do.”

    His breath hitched in his throat and he watched her as she flipped back, finding a particular section.

    “This--this kind of _emotion_ that you’re talking about it’s--it’s so _real_ , so--so--” She looked up at him, “--you appeal to your audience and you--wow, I just--I have so many things to say about it.”

    He tossed his head back, laughing heartily, “Really?”

    “Yes!” She said, “Give me a pen!”

    “Yes ma’am.” He giggled, pulling one out of his suit jacket.

    She yanked it away from him and opened it, touching her glasses and putting the cap in between her teeth. She suddenly paused, “Is it--is it okay if I--?”

    “--Oh, yeah, go ahead.” He nodded.

    She began to read the story back to him, telling him line by line what she liked and what she thought he should change. Occasionally, they’d disagree, and get into a heated discussion about the use of an adverb or a clause she thought was too long. Sometimes, he could hold his own, but oftentimes, she’d win him over. She’d scribble the things down in the green ink, and he watched. Her handwriting was so much nicer than his; it made him a bit embarrassed but she didn’t seem to notice at all.

    Eventually, he ended up laying down on the bed as she paced around, holding the notebook close to her chest. He ran his hands through his hair. She stopped, closing the book.

    “Do you have any more stories like this?” She asked.

    He sat up slightly, looking at her blearily. “Yeah, why?”

    “Can I read them?”

    He blinked, “You--you want to read _more_ of it?”

    “Yes.” She nodded firmly, taking a seat on the couch once more.

    He laughed, “Well, I mean, okay, if you really want to.”

    She raised her brows, telling him that yes, she did.

    “Your funeral,” He smiled, jumping up and walking over to his desk, pulling a folder out of the shelf above it. He held out the portfolio to her, “They’re all kind of, uh, crappy, so, uh, be warned.”

    She rolled her eyes, “I’m sure that’s not true.”

    He watched from above as she began to flip through the loose-leaf papers. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table and they both glanced over, seeing a text from someone named Alex and a clock that read _11:48_.

    “Oh gosh!” She said, closing the folder, “I have to go home!”

    She stood, holding it out to him. He scratched his neck anxiously, “I mean, you could, um, keep it for a while--only if you want to though--”

    “--Oh, really?”

    “Yeah--yeah, I mean, I don’t want to make you feel like you _have_ to but if you, uh, have the time and if you want to then you can, uh, for sure, do that.” He stumbled.

    She beamed, clutching it close to her chest. “I’d love to.”

    He smiled, his skin burning a bit. “Do you want me to walk you to where you can get a cab, or--”

    “--Oh, no, no, I’ll be fine.” She said, walking over to her shoes and gripping his shoulder as she yanked them on, a firm hand holding her elbow. “Thank you, though.”

    He nodded, “Of course--thank _you_ , I, uh, hope it’s not too inconvenient.”

    “No! I haven’t had anything to read in a while; I’m really excited.” She said earnestly, looking at the folder hungrily.

    “Okay.” He smiled gently.

    She turned to him as she opened the door, waving slowly as it fell closed, her face disappearing as the crack became smaller and smaller.

* * *

    Mon-El didn't really know how or why, but three days later, just as he was leaving for a Friday night drink (or four), Kara came barreling into his apartment building. Now, they were in his flat, lying amongst a carpet of paper. She leaned against the back of the couch and he came in, offering her a mug of coffee.

    “Thank you!” She said excitedly, finishing her last pile.

    His lips parted, looking at all the post-it notes and highlights she’d made. “Wow, Kara, you didn't have to--”

    She shook her head, putting her drink down and touching her glasses. “Once I started, I couldn't stop.”

    She turned away, trying to pick which story she wanted to start with. He blinked, watching her. “I can’t--I can’t believe--”

    She looked up at him, and he knew it didn’t need saying.

    “Thanks.”

    A warm smile spread across her face, “Of course.”

    She leaned over to pick up a pile, and he cleared his throat, “So, uh, how’s your, um, article about the party going?”

    She rolled her eyes, her face hardening, “It’s not.”

    “Oh,” He said, “uh, why?”

    “My editor told me that it was too biased.” She shrugged.

    “Well, didn’t he let you rewrite it?”

    “Yes. Three times.” She said nonchalantly, flipping through a packet and biting the inside of her cheek. “That was just what she said about the third one.”

    He raised his eyebrows, gaping slightly. “What could you have possibly wrote that was so biased.”

    “She particularly liked the line ‘Donors to the arts are vapid, life-sucking people who understand nothing but their own squabbles and stature; they will never know what it is like to be the people they trod on.’”

    “Oh my god,” he said, covering his mouth and trying to stifle a laugh.

    She looked up then, and smiled. “Alright, shall we?”

    “Sure,” he nodded, scooting closer so he could look at the piece over her shoulder.

    It really was a shame that he was made known for _The Well of Stars_. Kara had spent a long time the other night while she was trying to sleep thinking about why she liked him so much better after reading everything else he wrote. She came to the conclusion that the real reason why neither of them really liked the novel was because Lar Gand was everything he hated about himself. Lar Gand was lonely, he was high and mighty, he had no one who knew him deeply. And again and again, he was rewarded for being the person Mon-El didn’t want to be; the person his youth had formed him into.

    “…I just… I don’t quite understand _why_ you wrote this one,” She said, handing it to him.

    He took it gingerly from her palm, adjusting the frames resting on the bridge of his nose and pulling his knee up close to his chest. He’d changed awhile back into flannel pjs and a white t-shirt, coming out of the bathroom wearing those adorable glasses that seemed so unlike him.

    “Yeah, you’re right, I have no idea--it’s--it’s crap anyways--”

    “--No, no!” She took it back, “It’s really good, it’s just, I don’t know, what made you want to sit down and write this?”

    He looked back and forth between her eyes and then turned away, fiddling with the end of his sock.

    “I--I don’t know.” He laughed anxiously.

    “You--” She glanced down at the papers, pushing her spectacles up by the corner. He watched her, unable to pull away as she spoke next, “--you wrote this story, about this man. Every day, he sits in this--this place, and he--he almost meditates. The reader, they have no idea why he sits there every day, no idea why the room he’s in is so small and why he can see himself in all of the walls.

    That’s--that’s the _beauty_ of it: _the mystery_.” She continued, “He--he spends so much of his time in there, thinking about how time is running out and how he--how he wishes he were somewhere else, but… he stays there. Sitting in front of all of those mirrors trying not to look at himself.”

    Mon-El shrugged, yanking his eyes away from hers. “I guess I just… have a thing for lonely protagonists.” He laughed.

    She smiled, “I guess so; but can you really call him a protagonist if it’s only a chapter long? It’s really just about his introspection.”

    “Well, that’s true but, it doesn’t specifically say he’s an _antagonist--_ ”

    “--Doesn’t make him a _protagonist_.” She pointed out.

    He grinned, “Well what else is there other than a protagonist or an antagonist?”

    She shrugged, smirking, “A bystander.”

    “Well the definition of a bystander is someone who is present at an event that he or she does not take part of.” He countered, scooting slightly closer to her, “What would he be the bystander of?”

    “His own destruction.” She replied evenly, “He just wastes all the time he has sitting there in that room, thinking about how he’s wasting all his time and that he should do something about it.”

    “How do you know he has any choice?” He cocked his head and she smiled.

    “Any choice in what?”

    “His being there.” He said, “You have no idea whether or not he wants to be there--”

    “--All you know is that he feels like he does.” She finished, leaning against the backside of the couch, stretching her legs out against the carpet.

    “Exactly.” He nodded, running a hand through his hair and avoiding her stare.

    “Come on,” she nudged his leg, “tell me--tell me more.”

    He looked up at her. She could see the conflict in his eyes; tell her or tell her not?

    “I can’t help but notice you only have one mirror in the house--I have quite a few in mine, and so does my sister and so does the house we grew up in.” She leaned closer to him, “You hardly _clean_ yours.”

    “I think you read a little too far into fiction, Kara.” He replied, an easy smile on his face.

* * *

    Hands curled into cotton sheets, fingers practically tearing holes in the fabric. Nails scratched at palms, eyelids squeezed shut, eyelashes brushing against cheeks. Sweat clung to his skin;

    He couldn’t move.

    Like falling up out of a dark lake, he arose, flying out of his covers and sitting stock-straight at the end of his bed. He blinked, taking a slow breath, pressing his elbows to his knees and holding his head in his hands. Suddenly, he heard an unflattering snort.

    He looked up, finding a woman laying on the couch across from him. She sat up, spluttering, glasses askew. “Mon-El?”

    He blinked, unable to believe she was still here.

    “Are you okay?” She asked, standing up and quickly walking over to the bed. She sat down slowly, looking at him with a concerned brow. “Mon-El? What’s wrong?”

    “Nothing,” he said, standing, “everything’s fine, I just--I need some water.”

    She nodded, watching as he walked away. She touched her glasses and folded her hands in her lap. He came back and she looked up at him. He put his empty glass gently down on the coffee table and sat on the couch.

    “If you’re going to stay then you can have the bed,” He said, “I didn’t realize--if I had, I’d have given it to you in the first place--”

    “--I’m fine on the couch, Mon-El, really--”

    “--Please, I insist.” He responded, laying down. “Night, Kara.”

    He crossed his arms underneath the crown of his head, staring up at the ceiling. She looked at him pensively, not making any move to lay down or try and sleep again.

    “Mon-El,” she began, “does you dad… does he always talk to you like that?”

    “Talk like what?” He frowned.

    “Like how he talked to you at the, uh,” She swallowed, “at the party.”

    “He only ever speaks the truth.” He snorted humorlessly, scratching his cheek.

    “What?” She asked incredulously, surprised by his nonchalant answer.

    He shrugged, “He’s always pushed me, always wanted me to be better than I ever will be.”

    “How can you--” She stuttered, suddenly so passionate she couldn’t even think of words, “--how can you _say_ something like that?”

    “I mean, he was right, so was my mom, it doesn’t matter--”

    “--No, _no,_ ” She cried, standing up and making him blink. “ _No!_ ”

    “Kara, you don’t need to--” He began, a surprised look on his face.

    “-- _Stop._ ” She said, “Just… Just listen to me.”

    Mon-El looked down, letting her continue.

    “I can’t believe that you’re just going to internalize that.” She said.

    “Internalize what?” He frowned.

    “You’re kidding, right?” She said, “That--those--those _things_ he said to you--they--they were _terrible_ \-- _awful_ things, Mon-El!”

    “Doesn’t mean they’re not true.” He said softly, “Everyone thinks so; the only reason why people read my book is because it’s different than everything else and eloquent, not because it’s inspiring in any way--”

    “--Stop letting them control the way you think about yourself!” She said, gripping her hair frustratedly, “I--I--I can’t--they didn’t even _read_ your novel! How could they _possibly know_ what kind of writer you are?!”

    “They know me.” He said.

    “No!” She yelled, “They obviously don’t!”

    He stood as well, “They’ve known me my whole life--they’re the _only people_ who know me--who I _really_ am.”

    “So you think that Mon-El and Mike Matthews are two different people?” She raised a brow.

    “Yes, they are!” He said.

    “You’re wrong.” She said, “There’s no difference between who _I_ am and _who writes_ my articles.”

    “It’s--it’s _different_.” He shook his head.

    “No, it’s not.” She said, and he turned away.

    He rubbed his forehead, unable to come up with a response.

    “ _They_ don’t mean anything.” She said suddenly, “ _They’re_ the ones who are going to be forgotten-- _they’re_ the ones who aren’t going to matter in ten years.”

    He looked over at her for the first time, surprised she’d say something like that.

    “What does it matter to you? You _hated_ my book!” He said, sitting up, “I’m just a story to you, right? Why do you care--?”

    “--You’re _not_ just a story, Mon-El.” She said, “You’re not just some frat boy who got famous _by_ luck, either. You’re a _really good_ writer, and that does count for something.”

    He wanted to say something back; something painful and harsh. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to parallel the blow she’d just managed to stick on him.

    “You _have_ talent, Mon-El,” she continued, “you just need to start writing again.”

    “Again?”

    She swallowed, “I couldn’t help but notice that the dates on all those stories were from before you released _The Well of Stars_.”

    “Seems like you can’t help but notice a lot of things.” He said, laying back down.

    She looked down, and sighed, shaking her head. She stood, walking over to him.

    “Get up.” She said.

    “What?”

    “I’m not sleeping in your bed, Mon-El.” She put her hands on her hips, “You are. I’m perfectly fine on the couch.”

    He looked back and forth between her eyes and knew that neither of them were going to get any sleep unless he moved. He stood begrudgingly, offering her a blanket off the foot of his bed. She took it and put her glasses down next to his cup, turning to face the back of the couch. He sighed, shuffling over to his bed and plopping down, and letting sleep hit him like a sack of bricks.

* * *

    Mon-El shoveled pancakes into his mouth as he watched Kara read across the table from him. She sat sideways in her chair, making the arm the back and the back a place to rest the hand she held her mug in. In the other palm, she held a packet, her eyes tracing the lines with a furrowed brow.

    He swallowed as she turned towards him, putting the paper down. He looked at her expectantly. “So?”

    She pursed her lips. “It was… _good_.”

    He sighed dramatically, throwing himself back in the chair, “It was terrible, wasn’t it?”

    “No! No, it wasn’t, really--”

    “--Oh god, I should’ve known.” He shook his head, “I am so sorry, this--this was the best thing I’ve written recently, I thought it was good--I mean, I _convinced_ myself it was good.”

    “Mon-El!” She said, reaching across the table and putting a hand on his arm, “Calm down, okay?”

    He nodded, swallowing the last bit of pancake he’d stuffed into his mouth.

    “ _Deep_ breath,” she said, watching as he took one. “Okay, what I _meant_ was: the story just doesn’t have the same _feeling_ as your other ones.”

    “What does that mean?” He asked, slightly panicked.

    “It just… it doesn’t have the same emotions attached to it, you know?” She said slowly. He tilted his head, indicating for her to continue. “It was boring.” She finished quickly.

    He sighed and looked away.

    “Sorry…” she said gently, “I really didn’t mean to be, uh, you know.”

    “No, I know you didn’t.” He said, “I just… I can’t find anything to write about anymore.”

    “Why?”

    He shrugged helplessly, “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

    “Well,” She thought for a moment, “how did you get yourself to write before?”

    “I don’t know!” He cried and she made a face that said ‘ _chill._ ’ “I just sort of… got an idea and went with it, I never really had to plan ahead.”

    She nodded slowly, and they sat in silence for a minute, thinking of what they could do. He looked up at her and smiled,

    “Okay, for the next week, would you mind texting me any small thing that you notice.”

    “What?” She frowned.

    “Like the way something smells, or a habit that people tend to have,” He said.

    “Like… like _anything?_ ” She blinked.

    “Mhm,” he nodded.

    “That’s so _broad_ ,” she breathed, “what if I don’t have anything interesting to say?”

    “Doubt that.” He said, making her smile.

    “Okay fine,” she said after a moment, “but only if you text me some too; I might need _some_ idea of what to say.”

    He grinned, “Deal.”

    He offered her a hand across the table and she laughed in spite of herself, taking it gently. They sat back and smiled at each other over their coffees.

    He was walking around in the city about a half an hour after that, when he got her first text.

_K: There’s an elderly woman on train across from me, who has got this huge potted plant in her hands and it’s touching the ceiling._

    The message was followed by a stealthily taken photo of said woman, featuring Kara’s knee in the corner. He laughed, sending her a smiley face.

_K: Was that okay?_

_I wasn’t sure what exactly you’d want me to say XD_

_M: Stuff like that is perfect, but don’t just limit it to people; you can talk about anything_

_K: Only you would use a semicolon over text_

_M: Haha true_

    There was a short pause, and she texted again.

_K: What are you doing?_

_M: Well right now, I'm walking in this little park that's completely empty._

_K: Oh no! You have to go sit in it so it’s not lonely!_

    He laughed, surprised that she'd say that. She would have definitely stayed--it was too nice of a day not to--but he was restless. He had to keep moving, find inspiration elsewhere.

* * *

    Mon-El stared at his laptop, a new, blank document open. She’d written him a lot of things. At first, they’d just been small things she noticed, but then, she started asking deeper questions.

_K: Do you think that it’s really possible to love someone the most in the whole world? Like, how would you measure that? How could you decided between say, your sister and your lover? Your father and your child?_

_K: I just noticed the other night that every time I strain pasta, it makes me think of the early Spring, when my adoptive family would take me east and we’d make maple syrup. I should tell you all about it._

_K: When my boss dislikes something, she tucks her two front teeth behind his lower ones. (I know this because she does it around me a lot)_

_K: Every five minutes or so, my shower gets cold, and then it takes like two minutes for it to get warm again._

_K: Do you really think of Mon-El Matthews and Mike Matthews as two different people?_

_M: I guess, sometimes. Why?_

_K: I was just thinking._

    He stared at that last one for a long moment. There came then, a sort of hollow ache in his chest. He didn’t know why, but for some strange reason, she made him feel… He shook his head and sat forwards again.

* * *

    Mon-El couldn’t believe this was happening. Here he was, in his parents’ loft, sitting around a table decorated with a feast fit for royalty, and Kara was right next to him, wearing the same gray sweater--the one with the pulls sticking up from the shoulders and the hole in the right sleeve--that she wore to work. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. It didn’t work.

    He’d asked her a couple days before if she would be able to join him so he wouldn’t have to be alone at the shareholder’s dinner, and she’d agreed, showing up to his house as though they were going to stay up working together.

    “...Mon-El’s novel is actually about a _dashing_ hero travelling across the galaxy in search of the treasure his ancestors had been looking for, for _decades_.” His mother said, making the men around the table nod vaguely.

    Kara leaned closer to him, putting her elbow on the table and covering her mouth with the fist in which she held her fork. A hardened expression gracing her face, she whispered, “How much longer?”

    “You want to get out of here?” He asked, glancing over at her worriedly.

    She swallowed and sighed, shaking her head, “No,” she said, covering his hand gently as it rested on his leg under the table, “not until you’re ready.”

    He nodded, and turned forwards again. He suddenly caught the eye of his father, who seemed to be trying really hard to hold back a sneer. Not breaking away from his father’s judgemental stare, he turned his palm up and squeezed her back. She smiled into the glass of white wine she was drinking, as he picked up his own of red, sipping carefully and looking away from his father.

    A half an hour later, he followed his father outside onto one of the balconies. He’d been preparing a speech for about a week, thinking of how to apologize for the party. He stepped outside into the air, hit with the sudden stench of stale cigarettes on the evening breeze. He coughed slightly, catching his father’s attention.

    “Dad, I, uh, I wanted to apologize for the party the other week, it wasn’t our place.” He said softly.

    His father turned out to look at the city, waiting for him to continue.

    “I know--I know that you and mom have a lot of things to do, and I’m sorry that we embarrassed you two.” Mon-El swallowed, “It won’t happen again.”

    His father nodded slowly, not answering him but obviously accepting his apology. Mon-El bit the inside of his cheek and then began to turn, walking back to the party.

    “You know she’s not going to stick around.” His father said suddenly, not looking at his son.

    “Who?”

    “Your reporter friend.” He replied, pausing for a long moment to take a hit off the cigarette, “She isn’t going to stick around much longer.”

    “What makes you say that?” Mon-El said, trying to hide the anxiety creeping into his voice.

    “Women like her,” His father said, “they don’t want to be with people like you. They want someone well-educated and interesting. You are neither.”

    Mon-El swallowed hard, “Kara and I are just friends--”

    “--Don’t bullshit me, Mon-El.” His father snapped, “You like her, but you’re just another guy--a passing fancy.”

    Mon-El’s toes curled inside his shoes and he nodded, turning away and biting his tongue angrily. He walked briskly back into the house and passed Kara as she poured herself another drink.

    “Mon-El?” She asked gently, and he stormed out the front door.

    Dropping her glass onto the table, she jogged after him. She followed him outside into night air, finding him sitting on the front steps. She sat slowly down next to him, staring out at the street. Cars pass by; people and dogs and the whole city seems to just keep moving on, and on, as they stay still.

    “What happened?” She asked softly after a long moment.

    He took a deep breath, lifting his eyes from the ground. “Nothing.”

    She nodded slowly, turning to him, “You know, you can always talk to me, right?”

    He looked at her, “I know.”

    She swallowed, turning to look at the street again.

    Standing, she offering him a hand, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

    He grinned, playing along, “And go where?”

    “I know a place.”

* * *

    Mon-El didn’t know how long he’d been sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. They’d gone to his house after that dinner, and he felt like he was comatose. He couldn’t feel his limbs, couldn’t feel his heart, couldn’t feel his brain or his lungs. This was, by far, the most numb he’d ever felt in his life. He didn’t know why; he just sat in it.

    He sighed, looking away from where he’d been glancing out the window. He turned, stopping dead in his tracks. The covers of his bed were disturbed by a sleeping form. Her soft hands were tucked under her pillow, her glasses askew, sitting at a strange angle on her face. Her blonde curls were fanned out over the bed, her toes sticking out of the bottom blanket.

    There was something about it--seeing her in between his dark, gray sheets. He didn’t know what, but it was… filling? That wasn’t the word. _God_ , he had no clue.

    She snored softly, turning onto her back. She tucked one arm under the pillow and the other rested on her stomach. Her head rested just on the edge of the cushion, so part of it was on the mattress. She was frowning.

    He smiled, leaning over and gently pulling the glasses off her nose. He folded them, hanging them off the desk lamp. He turned back to his laptop, and then suddenly realized something. He looked up at her glasses, and saw his hanging right next to them. He glanced to his right and there she was, occupying his bed.

    She had food in his fridge, writing on his prose, sweaters in his closet, an umbrella she’d forgotten one day next to his front door. She’d brought a red blanket over for his couch, and it sat folded neatly--by her--on the back to this day, almost two months later.

    She had a toothbrush in his bathroom, her lemon tea and cocoa mix in his sparse cabinets. She’d stolen a flannel shirt from him one night after she’d ruined the blouse she’d been wearing. He was under the impression that either she forgot about it, or she thought he’d forgotten about it and therefore had decided to forgo the whole “return” process. She has highlighted his work, spoken to him about things he’d never told anyone before--she’d _listened_ to him.

    He trusted her. His trust in her was, just now, in this moment, made so very clear to him. She was a _huge_ part of his life; how had he not realized earlier?

    She commanded respect, being stronger than anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t understand how someone could be so sensitive and sympathetic and still want to be around him. She had touched almost everything in his life, claiming it as her own. It wasn’t bad, at least, it wouldn’t be until she left and everything reminded him of how he can’t have a meaningful relationship with anyone.

* * *

    She’d taken to doing that. Every morning when she’d wake up, she’d apologize and tell him that he should wake her up, were she ever to do it again. He would only smile, promising her that he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Today, was much the same, but a bit different.

    He was running around, grabbing clothes and trying not to make much noise. She sat up, blinking blearily, “What’s going on?”

    “I, uh, I have to go do something.” He said vaguely, pausing to look around, trying to find his coat.

    “What do you have to do?” She looked down at her watch, lifting it to show him the time, “It’s seven o’clock in the morning on a _Saturday_.”

    “Your point?” He raised a brow.

    “Since when do you get up before twelve?” She said, “And, while we’re on the subject,” she scooted to the end of the bed, picking up his jacket and holding it out for him, “since when do you wake _me_ up before twelve?”

    He smiled, taking the coat off her hands, “I didn’t mean to, sorry.”

    She nodded, sitting back down at the end of the bed as he began to search for socks. “So, where _are_ you going, anyways?”

    “My mom,” He yanked on one shoe, “she said she needs me.”

    “She called?”

    “Yeah,”

    “When?”

    He frowned, looking up at her, “About a half an hour ago.”

    “And when does she want you to be there?” Kara asked pointedly.

    He put his hands on his hips, looking at her suspiciously. “Immediately. Why?”

    She only sighed, touching her glasses and shaking her head. “Nothing.”

    “Come on, Kara, you obviously have something you want to say.” He said.

    “I just--” She swallowed, “--I just think that’s a bit short-notice you know?”

    “Okay?”

    “Doesn’t she ever consider that you have friends?” She asked, clearly trying to be gentle, “I mean, what if you had plans or something?”

    “Well, I don’t really have friends, so.”

    “Is that what you think or is that what they say?” She replied in quick succession. Her eyes widened; she couldn’t believe she’d just said that.

    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He snapped.

    She looked at him as though she couldn’t believe he’d just uttered those words. Standing and tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, she walked over to him.

    “Mon-El,” She said, “you’re parents are…”

    “What?” He stepped closer to her, “You have a problem with my parents?”

    “My problem is that you _don’t_ have a problem with them!” She cried, “They say _terrible_ , _horrible_ things to you! Things that make you _upset_ and feel _hurt!_ ”

    “The truth hurts, Kara! Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said--”

    “--What they say is _not_ the truth.” She said, her voice getting deeper and more powerful. “Every time you see them, you come home and you’re a _wreck_. They have wormed their way into your head, and over the course of your entire _existence_ , they’ve just tried to _warp_ and _carve_ you so that you’ll be just who they want! But you’re _not_ the person they want you to be!”

    “Yes, but I am trying to be better--be a better writer, a better _son!_ ” He yelled back.

    “You’re not _listening_ to me!” She said, her face flushing, “All they ever do is hurt you, Mon-El.”

    “You don’t know a damn thing about my family.” He shook his head, turning away from her.

    “Oh don’t I?” She crossed her arms. “I’ve watched your father call you horrible names and criticise your every move. I’ve watched him put you down; watched the way you tense up whenever your mother is around like you’re just _waiting_ for her say something _terrible_.

    They run their lives like dictators, and that kind of--of _totalitarian_ form of parenting _never works!_ They keep _stepping_ on you because it makes them feel _powerful!_ They aren’t giving you _advice!_ They’re trying to keep you dependant on _them_ and _their_ money and _their_ success and _their_ name, Mon-El!

    Why can’t you just _see_ that? I’ve been waiting for you to _see_ this for _months_ , Mon-El-- _why won’t you accept the truth?_ ”

    “ _It’s not true!_ ” He snapped, “They _love_ me! They’re my parents!”

    “Who’re you trying to convince?” She asked, “ _Me_ , or _yourself?_ ”

    His breath hitched in his throat and he swallowed, stepping back and running a hand through his hair.

    “I’ve read almost everything you’ve ever written, Mon-El, I’d say I know a great deal about you and your parents.”

    He laughed humorlessly, rubbing his brow. “Like _what?_ ”

    “All of your characters are just copies of you.” She said, “After all; it’s much easier to talk about yourself through someone else’s mouth.”

    “You have--you have _no idea_ what you’re--”

    “--Mon-El,” she interrupted, walking closer to him, “I’ve been _inside_ your _head_. I know _exactly_ what kind of person you are--who _they_ are--and the person you want to be.”

    He met her gaze, “And what person is that, oh wise one?”

    “Mon-El. You don’t want to be _Mike_ , you don’t want to be the son of the _Matthews_.” She spoke the other two names disdainfully, “You want to be your own man--a _good_ man. You don’t want to be around those--those _toxic_ people who _hurt_ you and pull you down. You want to be _happy_ , and you’re never, _never_ , going to be if you don’t get them out of your life and their voices out of your head.”

    He looked back and forth between her eyes and shook his head. He turned away, “Whatever, Kara--”

    “--What did your father say after you apologized for me last week?” She questioned, “Did he say, ‘Mon-El, I accept your apology.’ Or, did he say something about me?”

    He turned, “What?”

    She cocked her head, “Do you think I’m an _idiot?_ All this stuff about ‘I don’t have any friends,’ the subtle distance you’ve been putting between us--and don’t tell me you haven’t been doing it because I _know_ what it looks like when people are trying to push me away.”

    He had no idea what she was talking about, but he couldn’t form the words.

    “I _guarantee_ that when you go to meet them wherever you’re meeting them today, they’ll tell you something else that will _hurt_ you, and that will make you scared when there’s nothing to be afraid of.

    Your father said something to you that made you doubt me.” Her voice softened, “Parents aren’t supposed to say things like that, Mon-El.”

    “What would _you_ know about it?” He snapped.

    “My parents may have died when I was thirteen, but I was adopted by a very kind, and _nurturing_ family, Mon-El.” She replied evenly, “They never, _never_ , told me what life to lead, what job to do, what passions I should be-- _passionate about!_ ”

    He stood there, frozen with a glare on his face. He just turned, walking out of the apartment angrily.

* * *

    “Mon-El,” His mother folded her napkin daintily, “there’s something that your father and I would like to discuss with you.”

    “I assumed that.” He replied flatly.

    His parents shared a look as people moved their dishes out of the way. They were all sat around a circular table on a warm paddio, sunlight dappling their skin through the leaves.

    “It’s about your,” his mother made a face that looked mildly like the next word she was about to say was dirty or somehow improper, “reporter friend.”

    “Kara.” He supplied.

    His father leaned back in his chair. “We don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

    “Ex _cuse me?_ ” Mon-El frowned incredulously.

    “She isn’t good for you.” His mother said.

    “What the hell would either of you know about me and Kara?” He asked, “And since when do you care?”

    “She’s only after you for your money.” His mother shrugged, “That much is clear.”

    “ _What?_ ” Mon-El gaped.

    “Goddamn it, Mon-El, get your head out of your ass; it’s not a _hat._ ” His father sighed suddenly, “Traipsing around with that woman is going to get this family into a huge mess that no one here is going to want to clean up.”

    “How could you _possibly_ know--?”

    “-- _Because I am the parent, and you are the child!_ ” He snapped suddenly, making Mon-El flinch slightly. “You know _nothing_ , and we’re _always_ going to need to do everything for you, aren’t we?”

    It was then, in that exact moment that everything Kara had bellowed at him came flowing back. Mon-El could hear her voice, telling him exactly everything she’d observed about his entire life over the course of these past six months.

    Over these past weeks, he’d been trying figure out just how she saw the world; he wanted to get inside her head just like she’d gotten into his, but it wasn’t as simple as reading her journal (since she didn’t have one). It was in that one _millisecond_ , that he saw the way she did:

    He saw the _truth_.

    “I, uh, I have to go.” Mon-El pushed back in his chair, a dazed look on his features.

    “Mon-El!” His mother snapped, “You can’t go, we’re still _eating_.”

    “Oh my god,” He breathed, the realization still washing over him in waves. He suddenly let out a chuckle, and then another one, until he was just full-out laughing his ass off. “ _Oh my god!_ ”

    “What’s so funny--?” His mother began but he put up a hand to stop her.

    “I’m sorry, I just,” He said, pausing to catch his breath, “I had to take a moment and think about that.”

    His father opened his authoritarian mouth to speak again, but Mon-El interrupted him before he even began.

    “You know what, guys?” He smiled, “I’m twenty-six. _I_ have supported _myself_ for the past six years of my life, not you. In fact, now that I think of it, I’ve supported myself my _whole_ life.”

    “Wha--?”

    “--Not money-wise, of course.” He explained, “But my whole life I was the only one that kept myself going. The only reason I kept writing was because it was the only thing in life that made me feel something-- _anything_.”

    He stood, “You’re not in charge of me anymore. In fact, if you contact me again to tell me that I have to go to one of those _stupid, meaningless_ events you two call important; I will come in a t-shirt in jeans and get drunk off my ass in front of all your friends.”

    His mother gasped and his father rolled his eyes.

    “Sit _down,_ Mon-El, you’re making a _scene_.”

    “You know what, dad?” Mon-El’s voice rose, “ _Fuck you_.”

    His mother grabbed his father’s arm, “ _Mon-El!_ ”

    “No.” Mon-El said, never breaking eye-contact with his dad, “You want someone to tell _you_ the truth for a change?”

    His father didn’t answer but Mon-El took it as an invitation to continue.

    “You’re a terrible, sociopathic, son of a bitch, who should’ve never had a kid. You’re never going to mean anything because I am _not_ going to carry on your legacy, no matter _what_ you say to me about my writing being pointless. I am, an _amazing_ author, you bastard, and I don’t give a _damn_ what you say.” He began to walk away, “How would you even know, anyways? You’ve never even read my book, so how could you _possibly_ know what caliber of a man I am? You don’t know me _at all_ , and I’m done pretending you do.”

    He turned and began to march towards the door. His father stood, clenching his fists at his sides.

    “Mon-El! _Mon-El!_ Get _back here!_ ” He bellowed, “You _cannot_ just _walk_ away from me--”

    Mon-El looked over his shoulder and gave him the finger, opening the restaurant’s front door with his hip.

* * *

    Kara bit the inside of her cheek and looked down at the folder in her hands. She bounced her leg as she waited in Cat Grant’s office for her to come back from going to yell at the investigative team personally and in public--her favorite kind of punishment.

    “Kara, you look like you’re going to pop something.” Cat said in a bored tone of voice as she walked behind her desk, “If so, please do it somewhere else, the carpets just got cleaned.”

    “Nope, Miss Grant, I’m not going to pop anything, just wanted to run an article by you, if that’s okay.” She offered it to her boss.

    Cat raised her eyebrows, looking at the reporter pointedly over her glasses.

    “What?” Kara frowned.

    “Why are you _actually_ here, Kara.” She stood, pouring herself a drink. Kara let the article fall slowly back into her lap.

    “I don’t understand--”

    “--I’m not an _idiot_ , Kara; I’m the most powerful woman in National City.” Cat replied, “But even _Miss_ _Tessmacher_ would be able to see how your mood has shifted today.”

    Kara frowned. “What do you mean?”

    Cat sat back down, giving Kara her signature ‘ _are you kidding me_ ’ face.

    “For the past couple weeks, you’ve been _insufferable_. Always happy, and upbeat, and _occupied_. Today you are _annoyed_ and _callous_ ; obviously, a man has disappointed you. I could’ve told you that was going to happen _ages_ ago, Kara, but of course, you didn’t come to me for advice.”

    “It’s not like that, Miss Grant--” Kara laughed nervously, touching her glasses and looking down.

    “Then what is it like?”

    Kara swallowed and decided that she was going to tell her. “A friend of mine--”

    “--A man.”

    “--Yes,” Kara nodded, “He has these… these terrible parents. They’re just--they’re awful to him; they say all these mean and _hurtful_ things to him and he doesn’t seem to realize what they’ve done to him.”

    “Okay.” Cat said.

    “He won’t _listen_ to me. I’ve tried being gentle and I’ve tried _waiting_ for him to talk to me about it but this morning I just, ugh, I lost my cool!”

    “So he’s got baggage?”

    “Yes--well, he does but he doesn’t _think_ he does! He _refuses_ to deal with the truth! Or--or listen to _reason!_ ”

    “It’s obviously because he’s scared you’re right.” Cat stated plainly, taking a sip of her drink.

    “What?” Kara blinked.

    “He’s worried that you’re right and that he’s wasted all of this time with these people who don’t care about him, when he could’ve been rid of them and found people like you sooner.” Cat replied, “People who are kind.”

    “Well, I doubt he thinks that of me now.” Kara said, her shoulders slumping.

    “Don’t give up, Kara.” Cat stood, walking over to the door, holding it open for her employee. “He’ll come around someday. Hopefully. If not though, you probably shouldn’t waste too much energy on it.”

    “Right,” Kara nodded.

    “Besides, you never know if he has hidden depths,” Cat said a bit menacingly, “ones that aren’t as pretty as his visible ones.”

    “You’re saying you think he could turn out just like his _parents?_ ” Kara said incredulously, “No, no way. Mon-El is a--he’s a _good_ man.”

    “Mm.” Cat said skeptically. “In any case, this is a place of work; try and get some done, won’t you?”

    “Oh, yes Miss Grant.” Kara nodded, scuttling away.

* * *

    There was a knock at the door. Mon-El looked up from his laptop screen. He frowned, walking over and opening it, finding Kara dripping on his doorstep.

    “Kara?”

    “I’m sorry,” she said, walking past him and into the apartment, wiping some drops of rain off her forehead, “I couldn’t take it any longer.”

    “Take what?”

    “ _This!_ ” She indicated vaguely.

    “First off--” Mon-El shook his head slightly to clear it, “--why’re you so wet?”

    “It’s raining!” She said.

    “Don’t you have an umbrella?”

    “ _No_ ,” she said, pointing behind him, “ _you_ have my umbrella.”

    “Oh.” He turned back, “Sorry.”

    “It’s fine--listen,” she clasped her hands in front of her, “I know that you’re upset with me, Mon-El.”

    “Kara, I’m--”

    “--Just, please,” Kara stopped him, “let me just say something.”

    He looked back and forth between her eyes. He took a breath, nodding.

    “Thank you,” She said softly. “Last week, I said a lot of things to you all at once. Believe me, that was _not_ my plan--yes, I had a plan.”

    He smiled at her and she continued.

    “I wasn’t being very sensitive,” She said, “but that doesn’t mean that what I said wasn’t true.”

    He looked down and she pursed her lips; upset at his expression.

    “I know you can’t see it, Mon-El. I know that you want to believe that they care about you but even if they do they’re not going about it the right way--not even _close_.” She paused slightly, “I shouldn’t have talked in the tone I did but I can’t-- _can’t_ just _sit by_ and watched someone I care about get hurt over and over. You deserve _so much_ more than that, Mon-El.”

    His breath hitched in his throat and he tried to stare more intensely at their shoes; as if that would keep him from tearing up.

    “I just… I wanted you to know that.” She said. After a moment of silence, she swallowed, rolling her shoulders slightly, “Well, I’ll, uh, get out of your hair.”

    She walked past him and he suddenly straightened, beginning to talk.

    “You were right!” He called, making her stop. His voice softened, “You were right.”

    She turned, looking at him sympathetically.

    “I, uh,” He wiped his cheek and let out a watery chuckle, “I gave my dad the finger last week.”

    She gasped, covering her mouth. She began to laugh, and he beamed through his tears.

    “I told him he was a sociopathic son of a bitch.” Mon-El said, and she ran over to where he stood, yanking him down into a hug.

    She stroked his hair, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck.

    “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, “I’m so sorry that you had to do that.”

    He nodded, “I think he, uh, had it coming.”

    They pulled apart and she cupped his cheeks. She rubbed them with her thumbs and he felt his hands begin to quiver ever so slightly at his sides.

    “What matters is whether you’re happy and you’re _safe_ ,” She said, “do you feel that way?”

    He took a moment, looking down at her. She stared right back at him. While he was marvelling at her beauty and strength, she was thinking that he was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen.

    “I feel safe with you.”

    She smiled, “Well, I’m glad.”

    He grinned, and she mirrored him.

    “Here,” he walked back, “I think I have some food in the fridge, you can take off your coat and--”

    “--Mon-El,” she said suddenly, making him stop. He turned, looking at her carefully. When she spoke next, her could barely hear her it was so soft; “wait.”

    He stepped closer, looking at her with a concerned expression. “Are you alright?”

    “I have to tell you something.” She said.

    “Okay,” He said, his anxiety growing.

    “The other night I… I spent a lot of time thinking about this--this _thing_ we have.” She swallowed, and his mouth went dry. “It hit me all again; just how much I’d assumed about you during that interview--just how _unfair_ I’d been to you.”

    “Kara, you don’t have to apologize again--”

    “--But I want to.” She replied, “I want to because I was so, _so_ , wrong, Mon-El.”

    He blinked, knowing she was going to continue.

    “At first I _envied_ you; all you had to do was get drunk and you were famous. I thought you were a cheat. And then, I thought you were just a sad, lonely guy, and I decided to let my envy go. Then, I went to that party with you. I saw your father yell at you and say those things to you and I--I began to pity you. And then that night, it was like I’d suddenly been shoved right into you life, and you accepted me without question, showing me your writing immediately like you just needed someone-- _anyone_ \--to _see_ you. The _real_ you.

    I read that story in your journal about the boy in the darkroom, printing the same photo over and over again, finding that nothing changed no matter what he did, and I saw you. Suddenly, there was depth and emotion and hurt to this man I’d chalked up to be some kind of rip-off, con-artist.

    I felt terrible; like a total--terrible-- _person_.” She stumbled, searching for words, “And I couldn’t live with the idea that I’d written someone off just like everyone else when all they needed was one person--just _one_ \--to believe in them. So I took that folder home, and I just… I couldn’t believe that you were able to capture such a variety of emotions--some that I, myself, had never felt--and make me feel them like they were my own.

    Each hour I spent with you, I just… I began to feel like a hole that had been in my life for so long I’d stopped noticing it was beginning to be filled.”

    His lips parted, and in his eyes, a smile lurked.

    “I--” He swallowed, “--Kara, I--”

    She stood on her tiptoes, cupping his neck and pulling his lips down onto hers. His eyes fell closed, hands immediately reacting to her. He gripped her waist, and she stepped closer, pressing her body against his.

    She pulled off her coat, and he took off his shirt--much to her satisfaction. Nails scratched at his chest, tracing lines like rivers in his skin. They came tumbling back together, as she slipped out of her sweater.

    She lead him, gently nudging him backwards towards the bed. His knees buckled and he laid back. She stood above him, watching with a sly smile on her face, pulling off her shoes and socks one by one. He could stare at her for hours.

    She clambered on top of him, tucking her sopping hair behind her ear and giving him a gentle peck on the lips. He closed his eyes once more, revelling in the feeling he’d only ever dreamt about. Then the heat and passion returned.

    Suddenly, they were a tangle of limbs. He leaned up, kissing her throat as she let her head fall back. She tucking her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms tightly around him. He turned his head, his lips just barely touching her cheek. He could stay here, in this moment, with her in his lap, her breath in his ear and in his bed forever. Coincidentally; she was thinking the same thing too.

* * *

    The city sounds drifted through the crack in his window pane. She laid next to him, on her stomach, hugging the pillow for dear life as he sat next to her. The pads of his fingers brushed the top of her shoulder carefully, watching the content smile on her face, wondering if it would ever leave. For some strange reason, he started to think about those two stories she’d mentioned.

    “Kara,” he breathed.

    “Mm…” She hummed, turning to face him and lifting her eyelids.

    “You asked me once,” he took a shaky breath, “why there was only one mirror in my apartment.”

    She sat up and leaned against the headboard next to him.

    “I, uh, didn’t really think too much about the deeper meaning behind that story about the mirrors when I wrote it but, when you said those things about my parents, I couldn’t _stop_ reliving my childhood; suddenly connecting all these dots I’d never thought about before. You planted this seed inside my head and it grew rampant, taking over everything.” He swallowed, “The sent me in there when I’d upset them in some way--looking back now, I know I usually had no reason to feel guilty about what I’d done but it was hard to see that at the time.

    It was this little place right between their closets; all the walls were filled with these full-length mirrors, and there was this sterile, cream-colored carpet. My father would drag me in there and make me sit, cross-legged in the middle. He’d say, ‘sit in here, and look at _that_ reflection and think about _who you are_.’ It was a strange concept.”

    She rubbed his shoulder, and he swallowed, continuing.

    “That one about the boy in the darkroom, the one where he’s printing the photos and they just keep coming out wrong and he can’t fix them, no matter what he tries to do, no matter how he adjusts the enlarger?” He closed his eyes. “That’s loosely based on when I was a teenager.”

    “How?” She asked.

    “My family always had a lot of money, so therefore I did. One day, I bought a bottle of sleeping pills and I went into that room, and stared at myself. I sat cross-legged on that _awful_ , scratchy carpet, and I looked at those reflections, and all I could see was a coward. I couldn’t even _kill_ myself, I was so useless.

    And that was the first attempt at ‘printing the photo’ so to speak. I couldn’t feel _anything_ , I was so numb. I thought that I could finally make myself feel something-- _anything_ \--but every time I just froze. I stood at the top of my building one day and, I found myself thinking about that room, and hating myself. I could do it--I _could_. All I needed was to move one foot, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it and I hated myself even more than I thought I possibly could.

    I felt so useless, so disappointed in myself. I tried to rationalize it to my brain; telling it that my parents would be better off, that I didn’t have any close friends that would miss me. But in the end… I guess I was so scared of what would come after. I wasn’t brave enough to jump into the unknown--or to drown myself or to put myself to sleep or to cut myself.

    I couldn’t kill myself and so therefore, I was that much more of a failure. I built myself this prison; running around and around in circles, hoping that one day I’d make some sort of choice.”

    She cupped his cheek, turning his face so that he was looking at her.

    “Mon-El,” She breathed, “you are so beautiful, and you don’t ever, _ever_ , need to tell yourself that you’re anything less than the man you want to be.”

    He smiled, kissing her deeply. She pulled him down, enveloping him in her arms. He could definitely get used to this.

* * *

    Mon-El’s leg bounced anxiously, and a gentle hand moved quickly to quiet it. He looked up at her profile as she stared evenly at the stage. He sat back, sighing nervously. The man to his right smiled, leaning over.

    “Mon-El,” He said easily, “everything’s going to be fine.”

    “You don’t know that, James.” Mon-El bit the tip of his thumb, as James only chuckled.

    “Your book is going to win.” He said.

    “You sound very sure.” Mon-El replied.

    “I am sure.” James looked at him again, “After all, I’m the one who edited it.”

    Kara leaned forwards, “I edited it first.”

    James grinned, “Alright, that’s fair.”

    “... _I am proud to present the award for the most influential author of the year to Mon-El Matthews, for his book of short stories entitled, ‘Welcome to Earth._ ’”

    The crowd erupted around him, but he couldn’t move. He suddenly jumped up, running down the aisle, as Kara beamed proudly after him. He accepted the award from the man and turned to wave to the people. He stepped up to the podium.

    “Oh wow,” he said breathlessly, and the audience laughed. He wiped his forehead, “I, uh, I am so grateful to receive this award. My, uh, my first book didn’t take as much out of me as this one did, and I am just so amazed by how many people it touched.

    This book was, uh, mostly autobiographical, but I decided to use other people to tell it because, as a wise woman once said to me, ‘it’s much easier to talk about yourself through someone else’s mouth.’

    She saw straight through me, almost from day one. Without her guidance and support, I don’t think I would’ve ever realized exactly what kind of life I was living. She helped me find the courage that had always been inside me; the courage to keep going, and to believe in myself.

    My only hope for this book is that people out there think about the relationships they’ve kept and the ones they’ve let go, and to make sure that those were the right decisions. I want everyone who reads it to take a good look at themselves, and find the true power and strength they have inside them.”

    He swallowed, glancing down at the award, voice cracking as he spoke next. “Thank you.”

    She clasped her hands in front of her face, and their eyes met. She gave him this goofy smile, and he returned it back to her. He looked out into the audience, and although she and James were the only people he could see, he had a feeling that _everyone_ could see him now. 

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS THE LONGEST ONE SHOT I’VE EVER WRITTEN SEND HELP I HAVE PROBLEMS.  This is almost 20k works I think I don’t even know. Wtf Ros?????????????


End file.
